Ethelyn's Mistake

As yet, the open piano had been untouched, no one having the courage to

ask Ethelyn to play; but Tim was fond of music, and unhesitatingly

seating himself upon the stool, thrust one hand in his pocket, and with

the other struck the keys at random, trying to make out a few bars of

"Hail, Columbia!" Then turning to Ethelyn he said, with a good-humored

nod, "Come, old lady, give us something good."

Ethelyn's eyes flashed fire, while others of the guests looked their

astonishment at Tim, who knew he had done something, but could not for

the life of him tell what.

"Old lady" was a favorite title with him. He called his mother so, and

Melinda, and Eunice Plympton, and Maria Moorehouse, whose eyes he

thought so bright, and whom he always saw home from meeting on Sunday

nights; and so it never occurred to him that this was his offense. But

Melinda knew, and her red cheeks burned scarlet as she tried to cover

her brother's blunder by modestly urging Ethelyn to favor them with

some music.

Of all the Western people whom she had seen, Ethelyn liked Melinda the

best. She had thought her rather familiar, and after the Olneyites came

in and put her more at her ease, she fancied her a little flippant and

forward; but, in all she did or said, there was so much genuine

sincerity and frankness, that Ethelyn could not dislike her as she had

thought she should dislike a sister of Abigail Jones and the terrible

Tim. She had not touched her piano since her arrival, for fear of the

homesickness which its familiar tones might awaken, and when she saw

Tim's big red hands fingering the keys, in her resentment at the

desecration she said to herself that she never would touch it again; but

when in a low aside Melinda added to her entreaties: "Please, Mrs.

Markham, don't mind Tim--he means well enough, and would not be rude for

the world, if he knew it," she began to give way, and it scarcely needed

Richard's imperative, "Ethelyn," to bring her to her feet. No one

offered to conduct her to the piano--not even Richard, who sat just

where he was; while Tim, in his haste to vacate the music stool,

precipitated it to the floor, and got his leather shoes entangled in

Ethelyn's skirts.

Tim, and Will Parsons, and Andy all hastened to pick up the stool,

knocking their heads together, and raising a laugh in which Ethelyn

could not join. Thoroughly disgusted and sick at heart, she felt much as

the Jewish maidens must have felt when required to give a song. Her harp

was indeed upon the willows hung, and her heart was turning sadly toward

her far-off Jerusalem as she sat down and tried to think what she should

play to suit her audience. Suddenly it occurred to her to suit herself

rather than her hearers, and her snowy fingers--from which flashed

Daisy's diamond and a superb emerald--swept the keys with a masterly

grace and skill. Ethelyn was perfectly at home at the piano, and dashing

off into a brilliant and difficult overture, she held her hearers for a

few minutes astonished both at her execution and the sounds she made. To

the most of them, however, the sounds were meaningless; their tastes had

not yet been cultivated up to Ethelyn's style. They wanted something

familiar--something they had heard before; and when the fine performance

was ended terrible Tim electrified her with the characteristic

exclamation: "That was mighty fine, no doubt, for them that understand

such; but, now, for land's sake, give us a tune."